Harlequin and columbine

The Project Gutenberg EBook of Harlequin and Columbine, by Booth Tarkington This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with almost no restrictions whatsoever You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org Title: Harlequin and Columbine Author: Booth Tarkington Release Date: April 7, 2009 [EBook #6401] Last Updated: March 3, 2018 Language: English *** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK HARLEQUIN AND COLUMBINE *** Produced by An Anonymous Volunteer, and David Widger HARLEQUIN AND COLUMBINE By Booth Tarkington CONTENTS I II III IV V VI VII VIII IX X XI XII I For a lucky glimpse of the great Talbot Potter, the girls who caught it may thank that conjunction of Olympian events which brings within the boundaries of one November week the Horse Show and the roaring climax of the football months and the more dulcet, yet vast, beginning of the opera season Some throbbing of attendant multitudes coming to the ears of Talbot Potter, he obeyed an inward call to walk to rehearsal by way of Fifth Avenue, and turning out of Forty-fourth Street to become part of the people-sea of the southward current, felt the eyes of the northward beating upon his face like the pulsing successions of an exhilarating surf His Fifth Avenue knew its Talbot Potter Strangers used to leisurely appraisals upon their own thoroughfares are apt to believe that Fifth Avenue notices nothing; but they are mistaken; it is New York that is preoccupied, not Fifth Avenue The Fifth Avenue eye, like a policeman's, familiar with a variety of types, catalogues you and replaces you upon the shelf with such automatic rapidity that you are not aware you have been taken down Fifth Avenue is secretly populous with observers who take note of everything Of course, among these peregrinate great numbers almost in a stupor so far as what is closest around them is concerned; and there are those, too, who are so completely busied with either the consciousness of being noticed, or the hope of being noticed, or the hatred of it, that they take note of nothing else Fifth Avenue expressions are a filling meal for the prowling lonely joker; but what will most satisfy his cannibal appetite is the passage of the self-conscious men and women For here, on a good day, he cannot fail to relish some extreme cases of their whimsical disease: fledgling young men making believe to be haughty to cover their dreadful symptoms, the mask itself thus revealing what it seeks to conceal; timid young ladies, likewise treacherously exposed by their defenses; and very different ladies, but in similar case, being retouched ladies, tinted ladies; and ladies who know that they are pretty at first sight, ladies who chat with some obscured companion only to offer the public a treat of graceful gestures; and poor ladies making believe to be rich ladies; and rich ladies making believe to be important ladies; and many other sorts of conscious ladies And men—ah, pitiful!—pitiful the wretch whose hardihood has involved him in cruel and unusual great gloss and unsheltered tailed coat Any man in his overcoat is wrapped in his castle; he fears nothing But to this hunted creature, naked in his robin's tail, the whole panorama of the Avenue is merely a blurred audience, focusing upon him a vast glare of derision; he walks swiftly, as upon fire, pretends to careless sidelong interest in shop-windows as he goes, makes play with his unfamiliar cane only to be horror-stricken at the flourishings so evoked of his wild gloves; and at last, fairly crawling with the eyes he feels all over him, he must draw forth his handkerchief and shelter behind it, poor man, in the dishonourable affectation of a sneeze! Piquant contrast to these obsessions, the well-known expression of Talbot Potter lifted him above the crowd to such high serenity his face might have been that of a young Pope, with a dash of Sydney Carton His glance fixed itself, in its benign detachment, upon the misty top of the Flatiron, far down the street, and the more frequent the plainly visible recognitions among the north-bound people, the less he seemed aware of them And yet, whenever the sieving current of pedestrians brought momentarily face to face with him a girl or woman, apparently civilized and in the mode, who obviously had never seen him before and seemed not to care if it should be her fate never to repeat the experience, Talbot Potter had a certain desire If society had established a rule that all men must instantly obey and act upon every fleeting impulse, Talbot Potter would have taken that girl or woman by the shoulders and said to her: “What's the matter with you!” At Forty-second Street he crossed over, proceeded to the middle of the block, and halted dreamily on the edge of the pavement, his back to the crowd His face was toward the Library, with its two annoyed pet lions, typifying learning, and he appeared to study the great building One or two of the passersby had seen him standing on that self-same spot before;—in fact, he always stopped there whenever he walked down the Avenue For a little time (not too long) he stood there; and thus absorbed he was, as they say, a Picture Moreover, being such a popular one, he attracted much interest People paused to observe him; and all unaware of their attention, he suddenly smiled charmingly, as at some gentle pleasantry in his own mind— something he had remembered from a book, no doubt It was a wonderful smile, and vanished slowly, leaving a rapt look; evidently he was lost in musing upon architecture and sculpture and beautiful books A girl whisking by in an automobile had time to guess, reverently, that the phrase in his mind was: “A Stately Home for Beautiful Books!” Dinner-tables would hear, that evening, how Talbot Potter stood there, oblivious of everything else, studying the Library! This slight sketch of artistic reverie completed, he went on, proceeding a little more rapidly down the Avenue; presently turned over to the stage door of Wallack's, made his way through the ensuing passages, and appeared upon the vasty stage of the old theatre, where his company of actors awaited his coming to begin the rehearsal of a new play II “First act, please, ladies and gentlemen!” Thus spake, without emotion, Packer, the stage-manager; but out in the dusky auditorium, Stewart Canby, the new playwright, began to tremble It was his first rehearsal He and one other sat in the shadowy hollow of the orchestra, two obscure little shapes on the floor of the enormous cavern The other was Talbot Potter's manager, Carson Tinker, a neat, grim, small old man with a definite appearance of having long ago learned that after a little while life will beat anybody's game, no matter how good He observed the nervousness of the playwright, but without interest He had seen too many Young Canby's play was a study of egoism, being the portrait of a man wholly given over to selfish ambitions finally attained, but “at the cost of every good thing in his life,” including the loss of his “honour,” his lady-love, and the trust and affection of his friends Young Canby had worked patiently at his manuscript, rewriting, condensing, pouring over it the sincere sweat of his brow and the light of his boarding-house lamp during most of the evenings of two years, until at last he was able to tell his confidants, rather huskily, that there was “not one single superfluous word in it,” not one that could possibly be cut, nor one that could be changed without “altering the significance of the whole work.” The moment was at hand when he was to see the vision of so many toilsome hours begin to grow alive What had been no more than little black marks on white paper was now to become a living voice vibrating the actual air No wonder, then, that tremors seized him; Pygmalion shook as Galatea began to breathe, and to young Canby it was no less a miracle that his black marks and white paper should thus come to life “Miss Ellsling!” called the stage-manager “Miss Ellsling, you're on You're on artificial stone bench in garden, down right Mr Nippert, you're on You're over yonder, right cen—-” “Not at all!” interrupted Talbot Potter, who had taken his seat at a small table near the trough where the footlights lay asleep, like the row of night-watchmen they were “Not at all!” he repeated sharply, thumping the table with his knuckles “That's all out It's cut Nippert doesn't come on in this scene at all You've got the original script there, Packer Good heavens! Packer, can't you ever get anything right? Didn't I distinctly tell you—Here! Come here! Not garden set, at all Play it interior, same as act second Look, Packer, look! Miss Ellsling down left, in chair by escritoire In heaven's name, can you read, Packer?” “Yessir, yessir I see, sir, I see!” said Packer with piteous eagerness, taking the manuscript the star handed him “Now, then, Miss Ellsling, if you please—” “I will have my tea indoors,” Miss Ellsling began promptly, striking an imaginary bell “I will have my tea indoors, to-day, I think, Pritchard It is cooler indoors, to-day, I think, on the whole, and so it will be pleasanter to have my tea indoors to-day Strike bell again Do you hear, Pritchard?” Out in the dimness beyond the stage the thin figure of the new playwright rose dazedly from an orchestra chair “What—what's this?” he stammered, the choked sounds he made not reaching the stage “What's the matter?” The question came from Carson Tinker, but his tone was incurious, manifesting no interest whatever Tinker's voice, like his pale, spectacled glance, was not tired; it was dead “Tea!” gasped Canby “People are sick of tea! I didn't write any tea!” “There isn't any,” said Tinker “The way he's got it, there's an interruption before the tea comes, and it isn't brought in.” “But she's ordered it! If it doesn't come the audience will wonder—” “No,” said Tinker “They won't think of that They won't hear her order it.” “Then for heaven's sake, why has he put it in? I wrote this play to begin right in the story—” “That's the trouble They never hear the beginning They're slamming seats, taking off wraps, looking round to see who's there That's why we used to begin plays with servants dusting and 'Well-I-never-half-past-nine-and-the-youngmaster-not-yet-risen!” “I wrote it to begin with a garden scene,” Canby protested, unheeding “Why —” “He's changed this act a good deal.” “But I wrote—” “He never uses garden sets Not intimate enough; and they're a nuisance to light I wouldn't worry about it.” “But it changes the whole signifi—” “Well, talk to him about it,” said Tinker, adding lifelessly, “I wouldn't argue with him much, though I never knew anybody do anything with him that way yet.” Miss Ellsling, on the stage, seemed to be supplementing this remark “Roderick Hanscom is a determined man,” she said, in character “He is hard as steel to a treacherous enemy, but he is tender and gentle to women and children Only yesterday I saw him pick up a fallen crippled child from beneath the relentless horses' feet on a crossing, at the risk of his very life, and then as he placed it in the mother's arms, he smiled that wonderful smile of his, that wonderful smile of his that seems to brighten the whole world! Wait till you meet him But that is his step now and you shall judge for yourselves! Let us rise, if you please, to give him befitting greeting.” “What—what!” gasped Canby “Sh!” Tinker whispered “But all I wrote for her to say, when Roderick Hanscom's name is mentioned, was 'I don't think I like him.' My God!” “Sh!” “The Honourable Robert Hanscom!” shouted Packer, in a ringing voice as a stage-servant, or herald “It gives him an entrance, you see,” murmured Tinker “Your script just let him walk on.” “And all that horrible stuff about his 'wonderful smile!'” Canby babbled “Think of his putting that in himself.” “Well, you hadn't done it for him It is a wonderful smile, isn't it?” “My God!” “Sh!” Talbot Potter had stepped to the centre of the stage and was smiling the wonderful smile “Mildred, and you, my other friends, good friends,” he began, “for I know that you are all true friends here, and I can trust you with a secret very near my heart—” “Most of them are supposed never to have seen him before,” said Canby, hoarsely “And she's just told them they could judge for themselves when—” “They won't notice that.” “You mean the audience won't—” “No, they won't,” said Tinker XI Carson Tinker was in the elevator at the Pantheon, and the operator was closing the door thereof, about to ascend, but delayed upon a sound of running footsteps and a call of “Up!” Stewart Canby plunged into the cage; his hat, clutched in his hand, disclosing emphatically that he had been at his hair again “What's he mean?” he demanded fiercely “What have I done?” “What's the matter?” inquired the calm Tinker “What's he called it off for?” “Called what off?” “The play! My play!” “I don't know what you're talking about I haven't seen him since rehearsal His Japanese boy called me on the telephone a little while ago and told me he wanted to see me.” “He did?” cried the distracted Canby “The Japanese boy wanted to see—” “No,” Tinker corrected “He did.” “And you haven't heard—” “Twelfth,” urged the operator, having opened the door “Twelfth, if you please, gentlemen.” “I haven't heard anything to cause excitement,” said Tinker, stepping out “I haven't heard anything at all.” He pressed the tiny disc beside the door of Potter's apartment “What's upset you?” With a pathetic gesture Canby handed him Potter's note “What have I done? What does he think I've done to him?” Tinker read the note and shook his head “The Lord knows! You see he's all moods, and they change—they change any time He knows his business, but you can't count on him He's liable to do anything—anything at all.” “But what reason—” The Japanese boy, Sato, stood bobbing in the doorway “Mis' Potter kassee,” he said courteously “Ve'y so'y Mis' Potter kassee nobody.” “Can't see us?” said Tinker “Yes, he can You telephoned me that he wanted to see me, not over a quarter of an hour ago.” Sato beamed upon him enthusiastically “Yisso, yisso! See Mis' Tinker, yisso! You come in, Mis' Tinker Ve'y so'y Mis' Potter kassee nobody.” “You mean he'll see Mister Tinker but won't see anybody else?” cried the playwright “Yisso,” said Sato, delighted “Ve'y so'y Mis' Potter kassee nobody.” “I will see him I—” “Wait It's all right,” Tinker reassured him soothingly “It's all right, Sato You go and tell Mr Potter that I'm here and Mr Canby came with me.” “Yisso.” Sato stood back from the door obediently, and they passed into the hall “You sidowm, please.” “Tell him we're waiting in here,” said Tinker, leading the way into the creamcoloured salon “Yisso.” Sato disappeared The pretty room was exquisitely cheerful, a coal fire burning rosily in the neat little grate, but for its effect upon Canby it might have been a dentist's anteroom He was unable to sit, and began to pace up and down, shampooing himself with both hands “I've racked my brains every step of the way here,” he groaned “All I could think of was that possibly I've unconsciously paralleled some other play that I never saw Maybe someone's told him about a plot like mine Such things must happen—they happen, of course—because all plots are old But I can't believe my treatment of it could be so like—” “I don't think it's that,” said Tinker “It's never anything you expect—with him.” “Well, what else can it be?” the playwright demanded “I haven't done anything to offend him What have I done that he should—” “You'd better sit down,” the manager advised him “Going plumb crazy never helped anything yet that I know of.” “But, good heavens! How can I—” “Sh!” whispered Tinker A tragic figure made its appearance upon the threshold of the inner doorway: Potter, his face set with epic woe, gloom burning in his eyes like the green fire in a tripod at a funeral of state His plastic hair hung damp and irregular over his white brow—a wreath upon a tombstone in the rain—and his garment, from throat to ankle, was a dressing-gown of dead black, embroidered in purple; soiled, magnificent, awful Beneath its midnight border were his bare ankles, final testimony to his desperate condition, for only in ultimate despair does a suffering man remove his trousers The feet themselves were distractedly not of the tableau, being immersed in bedroom shoes of gay white fur shaped in a Romeo pattern; but this was the grimmest touch of all—the merry song of mad Ophelia “Mr Potter!” the playwright began, “I—” Potter turned without a word and disappeared into the room whence he came “Mr Potter!” Canby started to follow “Mr Pot—” “Sh!” whispered Tinker Potter appeared again upon the threshold In one hand he held a large goblet; in the other a bottle of Bourbon whiskey, just opened With solemn tread he approached a delicate table, set the goblet upon it, and lifted the bottle high above “I am in no condition to talk to anybody,” he said hoarsely “I am about to take my first drink of spirits in five years.” And he tilted the bottle The liquor clucked and guggled, plashed into the goblet, and splashed upon the table; but when he set the bottle down the glass was full to its capacious brim, and looked, upon the little “Louis Sixteenth” table, like a sot at the Trianon Potter stepped back and pointed to it majestically “That,” he said, “is the size of the drink I am about to take!” “Mr Potter,” said Canby hotly, “will you tell me what's the matter with my play? Haven't I made every change you suggested? Haven't—” Potter tossed his arms above his head and flung himself full length upon the chaise lounge “STOP it!” he shouted “I won't be pestered I won't! Nothing's the matter with your play!” “Then what—” Potter swung himself round to a sitting position and hammered with his open palm upon his knee for emphasis: “Nothing's the matter with it, I tell you! I simply won't play it!” “Why not?” “I simply won't play it! I don't like it!” The playwright dropped into a chair, open-mouthed “Will you tell me why you ever accepted it?” “I don't like any play! I hate 'em all! I'm through with 'em all! I'm through with the whole business! 'Show-business!' Faugh!” Old Tinker regarded him thoughtfully, then inquired: “Gone back on it?” “I tell you I'm going to buy a farm!” He sprang up, went to the mantel and struck it a startling blow with his fist, which appeared to calm him somewhat— for a moment “I've been thinking of it for a long time I ought never to have been in this business at all, and I'm going to live in the country Oh, I'm in my right mind!” He paused to glare indignantly in response to old Tinker's steady gaze “Of course you think 'something's happened' to upset me Well, nothing has Nothing of the slightest consequence has occurred since I saw you at rehearsal Can't a man be allowed to think? I just came home here and got to thinking of the kind of life I lead—and I decided that I'm tired of it And I'm not going to lead it any longer That's all.” “Ah,” said Tinker quietly “Nerves.” Talbot Potter appealed to the universe with a passionate gesture “Nerves!” he cried bitterly “Yes, that's what they say when an actor dares to think 'Go on! Play your part! Be a marionette forever!' That's what you tell us! 'Slave for your living, you sordid little puppet! Squirm and sweat and strut, but don't you ever dare to think!' You tell us that because you know if we ever did stop to think for one instant about ourselves you wouldn't have any actors! Actors! Faugh! What do we get, I ask you?” He strode close to Tinker and shook a frantic forefinger within a foot of the quiet old fellow's face “What do I get?” he demanded, passionately “Do you think it means anything to me that some fat old woman sees me making love to a sawdust actress at a matinee and then goes home and hates her fat old husband across the dinnertable?” He returned to the fireplace, seeming appeased, at least infinitesimally, by this thought “There wouldn't even be that, except for the mystery It's only because I'm mysterious to them—the way a man always thinks the girl he doesn't know is prettier than the one he's with What's that got to do with acting? What is acting, anyhow?” His voice rose passionately again “I'll tell you one thing it is: It's the most sordid profession in this devilish world!” He strode to the centre of the room “It's at the bottom—in the muck! That's where it is And it ought to be! What am I, out there on that silly platform they call a stage? A fool, that's all, making faces, and pretending to be somebody with another name, for two dollars! A monkey-on-a-stick for the children! Of course the world despises us! Why shouldn't it? It calls us mummers and mountebanks, and that's what we are! Buffoons! We aren't men and women at all—we're strolling players! We're gypsies! One of us marries a broker's daughter and her relatives say she's married 'a damned actor!' That's what they say—'a damned actor!' Great heavens, Tinker, can't a man get tired of being called a 'damned actor' without your making all this uproar over it—squalling 'nerves' in my face till I wish I was dead and done with it!” He went back to the fireplace again, but omitted another dolorous stroke upon the mantel “And look at the women in the profession,” he continued, as he turned to face his visitors “My soul! Look at them! Nothing but sawdust— sawdust—sawdust! Do you expect to go on acting with sawdust? Making sawdust love with sawdust? Sawdust, I tell you! Sawdust—sawdust—saw—” “Oh, no,” said Tinker easily “Not all Not by any means No.” “Show me one that isn't sawdust!” the tragedian cried fiercely “Show me just one!” “We-ll,” said Tinker with extraordinary deliberation, “to start near home: Wanda Malone.” Potter burst into terrible laughter “All sawdust! That's why I discharged her this afternoon.” “You what?” Canby shouted incredulously “I dismissed her from my company,” said Potter with a startling change to icy calmness “I dismissed her from my company this afternoon.” Old Tinker leaned forward “You didn't!” Potter's iciness increased “Shall I repeat it? I was obliged to dismiss Miss Wanda Malone from my company, this afternoon, after rehearsal.” “Why?” Canby gasped “Because,” said Potter, with the same calmness, “she has an utterly commonplace mind.” Canby rose in agitation, quite unable, for that moment, to speak; but Tinker, still leaning forward, gazing intently at the face of the actor, made a low, longdrawn sound of wonder and affirmation, the slow exclamation of a man comprehending what amazes him “So that's it!” “Besides being intensely ordinary,” said Potter, with superiority, “I discovered that she is deceitful That had nothing whatever to do with my decision to leave the stage.” He whirled upon Tinker suddenly, and shouted: “No matter what you think!” “No,” said Tinker “No matter.” Potter laughed “Talbot Potter leaves the stage because a little 'ingenue' understudy tries to break the rules of his company! Likely, isn't it?” “Looks so,” said old Tinker “Does it?” retorted Potter with rising fury “Then I'll tell you, since you seem not to know it, that I'm not going to leave the stage! Can't a man give vent to his feelings once in his life without being caught up and held to it by every old school-teacher that's stumbled into the 'show-business' by mistake! We're going right on with this play, I tell you; we rehearse it to-morrow morning just the same as if this hadn't happened Only there will be a new 'ingenue' in Miss Malone's place People can't break iron rules in my company Maybe they could in Mounet-Sully's, but they can't in mine!” “What rule did she break?” Canby's voice was unsteady “What rule?” “Yes,” Tinker urged “Tell us what it was.” “After rehearsal,” the star began with dignity, “I was—I—” He paused “I was disappointed in her.” “Ye-es?” drawled Tinker encouragingly Potter sent him a vicious glance, but continued: “I had hopes of her intelligence—as an actress She seemed to have, also, a fairly attractive personality I felt some little—ah, interest in her, personally There is something about her that—” Again he paused “I talked to her—about her part—at length; and finally I—ah—said I should be glad to walk home with her, as it was after dark She said no, she wouldn't let me take so much trouble, because she lived almost at the other end of Brooklyn It seemed to me that—ah, she is very young —you both probably noticed that—so I said I would—that is, I offered to drive her home in a taxicab She thanked me, but said she couldn't She kept saying that she was sorry, but she couldn't It seemed very peculiar, and, in fact, I insisted I asked her if she objected to me as an escort, and she said, 'Oh, no!' and got more and more embarrassed I wanted to know what was the matter and why she couldn't seem to like—that is, I talked very kindly to her, very kindly indeed Nobody could have been kinder!” He cleared his throat loudly and firmly, with an angry look at Tinker “I say nobody could have been kinder to an obscure member of the company that I was to Miss Malone But I was decided That's all That's all there was to it I was merely kind That's all.” He waved his hand as in dismissal of the subject “All?” repeated Canby “All? You haven't—” “Oh, yes.” Potter seemed surprised at his own omission “Oh, yes Right in the midst of—of what I was saying—she blurted out that she couldn't let me take her home, because 'Lancelot' was waiting for her at a corner drug-store.” “Lancelot!” There was a catch of dismay in Canby's outcry “That's what I said, 'Lancelot'!” cried Potter, more desolately than he intended “It seems they've been meeting after rehearsal, in their damn corner drug-store Lancelot!” His voice rose in fury “If I'd known I had a man named Lancelot in my company I'd have discharged him long ago! If I'd known it was his name I'd have shot him 'Lancelot!' He came sneaking in there just after she'd blundered it all out to me Got uneasy because she didn't come, and came to see what was the matter Naturally, I discharged them both, on the spot! I've never had a rule of my company broken yet—and I never will! He didn't say a word He didn't dare.” “Who?” shouted Canby and old Tinker together “Lancelot!” said Potter savagely “Who?” “Packer! His first name's Lancelot, the hypocrite! L Smith Packer! She's Mrs Packer! They were married two days before rehearsals began She's Mrs L Smith Packer!” XII As the sound of the furious voice stopped short, there fell a stricken silence upon these three men Old Carson Tinker's gaze drifted downward from his employer's face He sat, then, gazing into the rosy little fire until something upon the lapel of his coat caught his attention—a wilted and disreputable carnation He threw it into the fire; and, with a sombre satisfaction, watched it sizzle This brief pleasure ended, he became expressionless and relapsed into complete mummification Potter cleared his throat several times, and as many times seemed about to speak, and did not; but finally, hearing a murmur from the old man gazing at the fire, he requested to be informed of its nature “What?” Tinker asked, feebly “I said: 'What are you mumbling about?'” “Nothing.” “What was it you said?” “I said it was the bride-look,” said the old man gently “That's what it was about her—the bride-look.” “The bride-look!” It was a word that went deep into the mourning heart of the playwright “The bride-look!” That was it: the bride's happiness! “She had more than that,” said Potter peevishly, but, if the others had noticed it his voice shook “She could act! And I don't know how the devil to get along without that hypocrite Just like her to marry the first regular man that asked her!” Then young Stewart Canby had a vision of a room in a boarding-house far over in Brooklyn, and of two poor, brave young people there, and of a loss more actual than his own—a vision of a hard-working, careworn, stalwart Packer trying to comfort a weeping little bride who had lost her chance—the one chance —“that might never have come!” Something leaped into generous life within him “I think I was almost going to ask her to marry me, to-morrow,” he said, turning to Talbot Potter “But I'm glad Packer's the man For years he's been a kind of nurse for you, Mr Potter And that's what she needs—a nurse—because she's a genius, too And it will all be wasted if she doesn't get her chance!” “Are you asking me to take her back?” Potter cried fiercely “Do you think I'll break one of my iron—” “We couldn't all have married her!” said the playwright with a fine inspiration “But if you take her back we can all see her—every day!” The actor gazed upon him sternly, but with sensitive lips beginning to quiver He spoke uncertainly “Well,” he began “I'm no stubborn Frenchman—” “Do it!” cried Canby Then Potter's expression changed; he looked queer He clapped his hands loudly;—Sato appeared “Sato, take that stuff out.” He pointed to the untouched whiskey “Order supper at ten o'clock—for five people Champagne Orchids Get me a taxicab in half an hour.” “Yisso!” Tinker rose, astounded “Taxicab? Where you—” “To Brooklyn!” shouted Potter with shining eyes “She'll drive with me if I bring them both, I guess, won't she?” He began to sing: “For to-night we'll merry, merry be! For to-night we'll merry, merry be—” Leaping uproariously upon the aged Tinker, he caught him by the waist and waltzed him round and round the room THE END End of Project Gutenberg's Harlequin and Columbine, by Booth Tarkington *** END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK HARLEQUIN AND COLUMBINE *** ***** This file should be named 6401-h.htm or 6401-h.zip ***** This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: http://www.gutenberg.org/6/4/0/6401/ Produced by An Anonymous Volunteer, and David Widger Updated editions will replace the previous one the old editions will be renamed Creating the works from public domain print editions means that no one owns a United States copyright in these works, so the Foundation (and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United States without permission and without paying copyright royalties Special rules, set forth in the General Terms of Use part of this license, apply to copying and distributing Project Gutenberg-tm electronic works to 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